Part 3

Of course, I have visited the Venus, and the Pitti, and all the other marvels of art that Florence contains. These things have been so often described, that my remarks shall be limited to such gleanings as others appear to have left, or as are suggested by my own passing feelings. The tribune of the gallery contains the most precious collection of ancient art, perhaps, in the world. Every thing in it is a _chef-d’œuvre_ in its way; though I am far from seeing the necessity of believing that every old statue that is exhumed is an original. When I was introduced into this place, I felt as if approaching the presence of illustrious personages, and stood, hat in hand, involuntarily bowing to the circle of marble figures that surrounded me, as if they were endowed with sensibilities to appreciate my homage. You are not, however, to suppose that a love of art was so much at the bottom of this reverence, as association. There was a set of engravings in my father’s house that represented most of the antique statues, and for these I had imbibed the respect of a child. The forms had become familiar by years of observation, and the Venus, the wrestlers, the dancing faun, and the knife grinder, four of my oldest acquaintances on paper, now stood before my eyes, looking like living beings.

Florence is walled, but it is in the style of three or four centuries ago, and the defences may be set down as of no account in the warfare of our own times. There is a citadel, however, of a more warlike character, reserved, I suspect, for state purposes. The walls are picturesque, but, failing of the great military object, they are next to useless, as they are not provided with promenades. _Au reste_, they are a little _Jerichoish_, or as I have already described those of Morat to be.

Economy, the galleries, the facility with which one obtains lodgings, caprice and the court, unite to make Florence a favourite residence with strangers. The court has a little more of air and pretension than it might otherwise possess, from the circumstance of the sovereign being an archduke. Tuscany, however, is a respectable state, having nearly a million and a half of subjects, with Lucca in reversion.

Among the strangers the English and Russians predominate; especially the former, who are found in swarms, on the continent, in all the most agreeable places of residence. The policy of the Tuscan government encourages diplomatic appointments, and I belive all the great courts of Europe have ministers here, the French, Russians, English, Austrians, and Prussians have ministers plenipotentiaries, and many other _chargés d’affaires_. All these things contribute to render the place gay; nor is it without brilliancy at times, the little court appearing at the festivals and other ceremonies with sufficient pomp. I shall not philosophise on these things, but I fancy they do more good and less harm than is commonly thought by us democrats. I have often compared the _agrémens_ of this little town with those of one of our own larger cities. New York, which is four times as large as Florence, and ten times as rich, does not possess a tithe--nay, not a hundredth part of its attractions. To say nothing of taste, or of the stores of ancient art, or of the noble palaces and churches, and the other historical monuments the circle of living creatures here affords greater sources of amusement and instruction than are to be found in all the five great American towns put together. Every one appears to be at leisure, and the demon money seems to be forgotten, unless, indeed, he occasionally shows his talons at the gaming-table. An evening party offers the oddest collection of human beings imaginable; for the natives of half the civilised countries of the world appear to have met on neutral ground in this little capital, the government having the liberality to tolerate even men of political opinions that are elsewhere proscribed. I met at a _soirée_, lately, besides a proper sprinkling of Tuscans, and Italians from the other parts of Italy, French, Swiss, Germans from half a dozen states, English, Russians, Greeks, Americans from several different countries, Dutch, an Algerine, an Egyptian, and a Turk. There were, in addition, sundry adventurers from the islands of the Mediterranean.

This is the age of cosmopolitism, real or pretended; and Florence, just at this moment, is an epitome, both of its spirit and of its representatives. So many people travel, that one is apt to ask who can be left at home; and some aim at distinction in this era of migration by making it a point to see every thing. Of this number is a certain Count di V----, whom I met in America just before leaving home. This gentleman went through the United States, tablets in hand, seeming to be dissatisfied with himself if he quitted one of our common-place towns with a hospital unexamined, a mineral unregistered, or a church unentered. It struck me at the time that he was making a toil of a pleasure, especially in a country that has so little worth examining. But a short time since, I dined with my banker here. At table, I was seated between the Marchese G----, a Sardinian, and the Baron P----, a Neapolitan. Alluding to the locomotive propensities of our times, I mentioned the ardour for travelling, and the industry I had witnessed in the aforesaid Count di V----. Signor G---- told me that he knew him intimately, having himself visited all the North of Europe in his company, previously to which his friend had explored Greece, Egypt, Northern Africa, and the West of Asia, by himself. “When he left the United States,” continued Signor G----, “it was to go--where?” “To the West Indies and Mexico.” “True; and from the latter he came through Columbia to Brazil, where I was at the time. He left me there to cross the Andes, and I cannot tell you what has become of him.” “Why do you not come to the East Indies?” said an English woman to me the same evening, and to whom I had been introduced as to a lady who lived in that part of the world, but who had taken run from Calcutta to pass the summer in Switzerland, and the winter in Italy. “I fancy few mere travellers get as far as Hindostan?” “Oh, we have them occasionally. Now, the winter before I left home, we had one for several weeks in our own house; he only left us to go to the Himalayah mountains and return a few months before I sailed.”--“An Englishman, of course?”--“No, indeed; an Italian.”--“Pray, ma’am, was it Count Carlo di V----!”--“Yes it was.”--“And may I ask what has become of him?”--“He left Calcutta to go to Ceylon and Manilla, on his way to China.” So much for our own times![1]

The strangers are at the head of the gaiety of this place, few of the Florentines _receiving_ much. In this number may be included Prince Borghese, the brother-in-law of Napoleon, an amiable, well-intentioned, and modest man, who has abandoned Rome, his proper country, to reside here, where he maintains a good stile, opening his palace periodically for the reception of all who choose to come. Then we have, besides the regular exhibitions of the town, rival houses in two English theatres, with amateur-performers; at the head of one of which is Lord B----, and at the head of the other Lord N----. At the latter only, however, can one be said to see the legitimate drama; the other running rather into music,----an experiment not to be idly attempted in Italy.

We have seen Shakspeare in the hands of these noble actors once or twice, and found the representation neither quite good enough to please, nor yet bad enough to laugh at. Occasionally, a character was pretty well represented; but the natural facility of the other sex in acting was sufficiently apparent, the women making out much better than the men. It was like all private theatricals, well enough for a country house, but hardly in its place in the capital of Tuscany. We had a specimen of the feeling of the English towards America, as well as of national manners, the other evening, that is worth a passing notice. One of the players sang, with a good deal of humour, a comic song, that attempted to delineate national traits. There was a verse or two appropriated to the English, the French, the Germans, &c. &c. and the _finale_ was an American. The delineations of all the first were common-place enough; the humour consisting chiefly in the mimicry, the ideas themselves having no particular merit. But the verse for the American seemed to be prepared with singular care, and was given with great unction. It represented a quasi Western man, who is made to boast that he is the lad to eat his father, whip his mother, and to achieve other similar notable exploits. I do not know that I am absolutely destitute of an appreciation of wit or humour, but certainly, it struck me this attempt was utterly without either. It was purely an exaggerated and coarse caricature, positively suited only to the tastes of a gallery in a sea-port town. The other verses had been laughed at, as silly drollery, perhaps; but this was received with--how shall I express it?--a _yell of delight_ would not be a term too strong!

No one is more ready to give proper credit to the just-mindedness and liberality of a portion of the English than myself: but the truth would not be told, were I to leave you under the impression that their tone prevails even among the better classes of their society, in relation to ourselves. You will remember that this song was not given to the pit or galleries of an ordinary theatre, but to a society in which there were none beneath the station of gentlemen, and that I should deem this caricature altogether beneath the intelligence and breeding of the company, were it not for the singular rapture with which it was greeted. It is a much more laughable commentary on this extraordinary scene, that, just as it was finished, the Count di ---- leaned over and whispered to me that the dislike and “_jealousy_” (I use his own words) of the English for the Americans seemed inappeasable! I observed that the side of the room that was chiefly occupied by the people of rank was mute, the nobles maintaining a cold and polished indifference; but in the other end of the _sala_, which was filled with half-pay officers and the _hoi polloi_ of the travellers, the _yell_ was quite suited to the theme. One might have fancied it the murdered father shrieking under the knife of the parricidal son.

At the _receptions_ of Don Camillo Borghese, as the Romans style him, one sees most of the strangers. These entertainments are _dansantes_, and, as the rooms are large and the music noble, they are imposing; though the company is far from being of the purest water. As a proof of this, a noisy party preceded us, the other evening, the young men calling out to each other, “Where is the fat man?”--“Now for the fat man,” &c. the prince being almost unwieldy from his size. Waltzes are the favourite dances; though no people know how to waltz but the Germans--or, indeed, to play the necessary airs, but their musicians. It has struck me that I have seen no people who had the organ of _time_, but the Germans and the negroes of America: and a waltz without the utmost accuracy in the movement is a ridiculous dance. I have observed that the young women of condition in France and Italy were not often permitted to join in this dance, by their mothers, with men as partners, unless the latter were near connexions; and as the latter arrangement cannot well be made in a public ball, none joined in the waltzes here.

As a specimen of the sort of _omnium gatherum_ that Florence has become, I will give you a list of some of the notables that were seen, recently, in the first row of the Pergola, the principal opera-house, here. First, there was the Count St. Leu, as he is styled, or the ex-king of Holland. Near him was the Prince de Monfort, his brother, or the ex-king of Westphalia. In the same row was Mrs. Patterson, once the wife of the last-named personage. At no great distance was Prince Henry of Prussia, a brother of the reigning king. In the same line, and at no great distance, sat Madame Christophe, ex-empress of Hayti, with a daughter or two. In addition to these, there was a pretty sprinkling of chiefs of revolutions, _littérateurs_ of all nations, ex-ambassadors, and politicians _en retraite_, to say nothing of mere people of fashion.

The winter has come upon us sharply, ice forming freely in the ditches around the town, and skates being brought into requisition. I have seen snow impending over us, in falling clouds even, but it vanishes before it reaches the ground: though the Apennines are occasionally powdered. Once, and once only, a little has lain in the streets, but not long enough, or in sufficient quantities to enable one to say it has covered the stones. Still it is snapping cold, and we find our good wood fires as comfortable as in New York.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This unhappy gentleman subsequently lost his life by falling into a boiling spring in the island of Batavia! He was probably the greatest traveller that ever lived; having, so far as the writer can learn, visited every country in Europe, Persia, Palestine, Egypt, and all northern Africa; nearly, if not every country in America, and most of the East! By adding New Holland and the islands, he would have seen the world. Would he have been any happier for all his toils and dangers? It may be doubted.

LETTER IV.

Journey to the Coast.--Lucca.--Pisa.--The leaning Tower.--The Campo Santo.--Santa Maria della Spina.--Leghorn.--The Port.--American Man-of-war.--The Protestant Cemetery.--Climate of Italy not genial for Invalids.--Beauty of the Peasant Girls.

G---- W---- has been here, and we have made a run together down to the coast. We parted in June last, you will recollect, in Amsterdam, he on his way to Moscow, and we on ours to Rome, where he is likely to arrive before us, as he is off already in that direction, and we still linger here on the banks of the Arno. The little excursion we made together is worthy of a passing word.

We left Florence in W----’s carriage, an excellent bachelor-like vehicle, on as cold a noon-tide as one often meets with in New York, even north of the highlands. These Apennines, which form a magnificent backbone for Italy, give the country a great diversity of climate, serving as a wall to heat it in summer, and as repositories of snow to cool it in winter. We were closely curtained and had the glasses up, and went _ventre terre_ over the paved roads, and yet had great difficulty in keeping ourselves warm.

The first halt was at Pistoja, a town of some size, in which we amused ourselves for half an hour in looking at a church or two, as well as at some pictures. Taking a little refreshment, we proceeded at the old pace, and drove into the gate of Lucca, just as night had set in. Shivering with cold, for this little capital is in the heart of the mountains, we made our way into a room, and only began to recover the natural hue of our skins, when a dozen cones of the pine, well filled with resin, were in a bright blaze. These and a plentiful supply of faggots brought back the congealed vitality, whose current had almost frozen. A good supper and good beds reconciled us to life.

We were up betimes, and went forth to explore Lucca. The town stands on a plain, a mountain basin, and is walled in a semi-modern fashion. If good for nothing in the way of defence, the ramparts make an excellent promenade. We visited the churches and pictures as usual, and then took a fancy to examine the palace, a long, unornamented edifice in the heart of the place. The duke is travelling, and, pretty much as a matter of course, is out of his own dominions, which, though one of the most populous countries of Europe, possessing three hundred and thirty souls to the square mile, has not one hundred and fifty thousand people. When it is remembered that a large portion of even this small territory is mountain and nearly uninhabited gorges, you may form some notion of the manner in which the little plain itself is peopled. The town has only twenty-two thousand souls; but as we walked on the ramparts and overlooked the adjacent country, it seemed alive with peasants of both sexes, labouring in the fields. They resembled pigeons gleaning a stubble, literally forming lines of twenty or thirty, working with hoes. Indeed the agriculture was gardening.

Lucca was a republic, down to the period of the French revolution, about which time it was given to his sister Eliza by Napoleon, as a duchy. I believe the palace is owing to her taste, and to the expenditure of an imperial princess. We found it Parisian in style and arrangement, and in these particulars, I thought, superior even to Windsor. Nature has fitted the French to excel in mantua-making, upholstery, and philosophy.

After passing the morning in this manner, we took flight for Pisa. These republics must have had warm neighbourhoods formerly, for the distance between the two towns is only a single relay. The respective plains are separated by a noble pile of the Apennines, a mountain that is isolated, and which serves admirably as a party-wall between the capitals. The first glimpse we had of Pisa was of its tower and domes, the houses and walls lying so low as scarcely to come into the view. There was a line of respectable aqueduct, leading from the mountain, however, to give notice of the proximity of civilisation. The country, too, was fertile and well cultivated, but much less so than that of Lucca.

Pisa is a place to be seen, for it was once of note, and has curious remains of its former power. There is a palace, and the Tuscan court is here at this moment, passing a few weeks in it every winter, the town, nothwithstanding, is dull and half-depopulated, noble houses being to be had for prices almost nominal.

The chief interest of Pisa is concentrated in a single corner, where the cathedral, the baptistery, the Campo Santo, and the leaning tower are all to be found within a few feet of each other. They are all within the walls, as indeed is a good deal of vacant ground; both Florence and Pisa, like Rome, appearing to have shrunk from their ancient dimensions.

You probably know that it is a disputed point whether the tower, or _campanile_, was built at its present inclination, or whether it sunk on one side from a defect in the foundations. I shall take side with those who espouse the former opinion. By looking at an engraving you will perceive that this tower is composed of seven distinct compartments, externally, each being ornamented with its own columns. Internally it is merely a circular flight of steps, that lead to the gallery of the bells. Now the four lowest of these compartments lean materially, the two next less, and the last is almost, if not absolutely, perpendicular. I think these facts go to show that the tower was built in this form; for had it sunk when only half completed, it is scarcely probable that the artist would have persevered: he would have taken down the materials and laid the foundations anew. Then there is no crack, no dislocation of the columns, not the least derangement of the parts within or without, to denote a violent change of position. The principal reasons for supposing that it has sunk since erected, are the manner in which one side of the foundation appears to be buried, and the fact that there is an ancient painting which represents the tower as upright.

As for the first of these facts, it strikes me that an architect silly enough to erect such a monstrosity would be as likely to begin his folly at the bottom as any where else. The painting may be explained. It is a fresco picture of the town, in the cloisters of the Campo Santo, and no part of the tower is represented but the summit, which appears above the adjoining buildings. I have told you already that this summit is perpendicular, or so nearly so as to have that appearance when abstracted from the rest of the tower. Besides, the tower itself leans but one way, and taken in two positions, it of course presents nothing extraordinary. Now the view in the picture is precisely in one of these positions, or _en profile_. You will remember, moreover, that the bit of tower seen in the painting is but small, and that it is an accessory in which foreshortening would not be much attended to had the artist been equal to such an attempt: but, in fact, the whole work is of no great merit, and the entire perspective is indifferent.

I am of opinion that this tower was built as it now stands, until a point was reached where the architect thought it necessary to vary the line, which, it would seem, he did twice before reaching the summit. Caprices of this sort are not unknown; most men, indeed, fancying it a greater achievement of genius to make a thing that is extravagant than a thing whose merit consists in its exquisite fitness. A thousand will exclaim at the manner in which cloth, or a bit of lace, is represented in a picture or a statue, to one who will fully feel the beauty and repose of the expression of either.

The effect of the leaning tower, when standing in the upper gallery, is what one might imagine. It requires a slight effort of reason to look down without a sensation of fear; for it is like looking over a precipice. The view is fine, and for the first time in twenty years I got a sight of the blue waters of the Mediterranean. We saw the island of Gorgona, and overlooked a sea of plain. Had the day been finer, we should have enjoyed the prospect more.

The cathedral is a droll medley of beauty, and of a barbarous taste. The dome struck me as low and mean, and some of the details as good as others are bad. But these are subjects of which I say little, too many folios already existing on such matters. I liked the baptistery very much.

As for the Campo Santo, who has not heard of it? It is contained within cloisters, the monuments being under cover, and the space occupied by the bodies is not larger than a considerable court in a palace. In this place one might pass weeks in agreeable but melancholy contemplation. In the baptistery we saw a priest by the font, muttering something, and drawing near, found he was baptising a child. Religious rites, under establishments, get to be rather common-place.